Sundance (22 page)

Not so hard,
thought Longbaugh, remembering how it had been in prison when he had heard of his own death. And Parker's.

“You know they bury people on top of each other down there?” said Parker.

“Cozy.”

“Left a clue or two to convince any official snoop that it really had been us. Then, good-bye, Bolivia.”

“I still say you were the smart one, Parker.”

“Smart like being back in the Hole in the Wall Saloon with you?”

“Point taken.”

“We were lucky, of course.”

“Were we? How so?”

“Dying in South America. That's a long way. No one to prove it wasn't so.”

“Although there are those who know.”

“A handful. And they're not sure.”

“Oh, did I mention? Siringo's in town.”

Parker's entire body tensed. “You did not. Does he know we're alive?”

“He knows I am.”

“Why's he here?”

“Looking for me.”

“A handful and one. Funny way to keep a low profile, Harry.”

“Not for lack of trying. And you can relax, Bobby, he's not waiting outside.”

Parker snorted, but he did slacken his shoulders. “Why's he want you? Didn't you do your time?”

“Twelve years. Got out and some kid was waiting.”

“Oh. That.”

“That.”

“There are benefits to being dead. No one wants to prove anything over your corpse.”

“Tell that to the kid.”

A pause slipped into their conversation, although neither man showed any inclination to leave. They continued to sit side by side, but both of them angled their chairs so only the hind legs were on the floor and their backs were against the wall behind them.

“Sure are a lot of people inventing us since we died.”

Parker nodded. “No shit.”

“Ever find it hard to be someone else?”

“Nah. I like it, it's good for me.” Parker drummed his fingers on the wall behind him. “The gang got to be too big a responsibility once the law got close. You?”

“Can't seem to get out of my own way.”

Parker was matter-of-fact. “Because you got something special. That limits you.”

“How you figure?”

“Fastest gun I ever saw. Like having a tail or wings, something you can't hide.”

“I'm not that fast.”

“Pretty fast.”

“I keep telling you, it's about patience, nobody knows how to shoot.”

Parker laughed. “You do keep telling me.”

“And they come after
me
.”

“You always say that, too. But you never back off or go halfway. Too much pride, Kid. It limits you. Oh, I don't blame you. If I was that good, I'd be the same way. And now you're the Ghost, got a whole new myth around your neck, like a nervous noose.”

“You find that funny.”

“I do, a little. But that's you, like it or not. People always tell you who they are, all you have to do is listen.”

“What if I told you I want to be anonymous?”

“I'd say you can't help it. You may want to be anonymous but you're a legend all over again. Can't escape your nature, Kid. Now, me, I got nothing special. I wasn't fast or handsome. I'm getting good at being somebody else.”

Parker stood up then and went to the bar, returning a minute later with a full bottle. This time he sat at Longbaugh's table across from him, filled their glasses, and set the bottle in front of his friend.

“Nice to talk,” said Parker.

“Same.”

Parker looked off, as if it had been awkward to make such a personal admission, and now he had to somehow pretend he hadn't done it.

“So how's Etta?”

“Haven't seen her.”

“How's that?”

Longbaugh inspected the bottle. “Is this Kentucky or Tennessee?”

“You two split?”

“Not that I've heard.”

Parker shook his head in amazement. “Well, if that isn't the most asinine thing. She was devoted to you, Harry. How do you not know where she is?”

“I didn't want her waiting around Wyoming.”

“So, what, you sent her to New York?”

“Actually, yes.”

“She get lost?”

“Stopped writing.”

Parker was contemplative. “Something of a surprise.”

“That she stopped writing? I'd say it was.”

“Not that. You. Sending her away. Pretty damn gracious of you.”

“What, I'm not gracious?”

“One of the most gracious sons of bitches I know, but this is about Etta.”

“I'm not gracious about Etta?” He didn't know whether to be angry or amused.

“Took guts on your part. No offense, Harry, but I always thought you liked her being your little girl.”

“Well, my little girl found a little mischief.”

The light went on for Parker. “You're looking for her, which is why you're still in town, which is why you're not running from Siringo.”

“I
am
running from Siringo. I just happen to be running right in front of him.”

Longbaugh saw Parker was about to say more, then saw him swallow his words. Longbaugh couldn't face telling him the full story. It made him weak inside, having lost her, weaker still being unable to find her. And the story itself was complex and unfinished, so he had yet to discern its shape. But in life, stories are always defined after the fact. Longbaugh was unprepared to revisit the many roads he had taken, as he himself wasn't sure which of the offshoots could still prove important.

Parker's expression changed to one of curiosity. “You remember how you let Siringo go?”

“I didn't let him go,
you
let him go.”

“That's a technicality. I had him boxed in. And I was mad enough to kill him.”

“I remember.”

“He wouldn't be here now if I had. You see where I'm going? It was because of you. Logan told me Charles Carter was Charlie Siringo, and you said no. You said you'd met Siringo years before and Carter wasn't him. So I let him go.”

“That sounds about right.”

“But it
was
Siringo. And I still don't see why you did it.”

Longbaugh scratched his chin and shrugged. “Well, for one thing, I liked him. And second, you're not a murderer.”

Parker was quiet for a while then, thinking all of it through. He pulled a gold coin out of his coat pocket and ran it back and forth along his fingers like a magician. Twice he almost spoke up, but each time he went back into his own head, running it around, remembering those days and what they meant to him now. Longbaugh noticed the coin was a boliviano, with a man's profile. He tried to think of the name of the hero of the country, then felt stupid as he remembered the country was called Bolivia, so the man was Simón Bolívar.

Longbaugh was thinking about things as well, and when he thought Parker had had enough time to forgive him and let go of his frustration, he looked at him ruefully. “My little girl. Funny way to put it. You really think that's how I saw her?”

Parker was tactful. “Maybe not.”

Longbaugh poured again, overfilling the glasses, as if he didn't want to leave any behind, but there was still plenty left in the bottle.

Longbaugh shook his head grimly. “Once you've been with someone a while, you get an idea of how people see the two of you together.”

“Go on, you two were close . . .”

“Funny to find out how people actually see you.”

Parker waved that off. “Quit that.”

“You're not so much a couple, really. Just two different humans
sharing time together. When it comes to knowing what's in someone's heart, you're only guessing.”

“Brother, we don't know what's in our
own
hearts.”

“Makes you wonder what it is keeps folks together. Maybe our women stay with us because they're flattered by how we see them, as if it's how they like to see themselves. But I guess that's just another guess.”

Parker kept trying to shift his friend's mood. “Or maybe they like us for reasons we can't understand. Lord forbid if I ever understood what any woman ever saw in me.”

Longbaugh finally caught Parker's tone and forced himself to lighten up. “You're the original mystery, Butch.”

Parker tried to end it, by being sincere and supportive. “Just because people change doesn't mean she's changed about you.”

Longbaugh's face clouded over. “Hard to know anything when you're surrounded by silence.”

Parker stayed quiet this time, recognizing his mistake. He absently toyed with the gold coin a while. When he spoke again, he had moved on. He talked about old friends, droning on in monologue. Parker knew who in the gang had lived, who was in jail, who had tried to go straight.

“Too bad we have to stay dead,” said Parker. “The West has this city by the balls. We could make some serious money. Look what they've done with our stories. Would've taken an extra forty years to do all those things they said we did. They make us out to be heroes. It's like they need us to teach them how to be men.”

“I thought the Wobblies were doing that.”

“That's it, they are! You got it exactly. And that's the West. Big Bill Haywood's from Utah, you think that Stetson's a costume?”

“I read one of those dime novels about us.”

“I bet you died in a foreign land.”

“Heroically.”

“Manly guns blazing.”

“Truth is, I don't miss the West.”

“Why would you, they threw you in the clink. But that wasn't really the fault of the West, was it? That was the big eastern railroads.”

Longbaugh grinned. “You blame everything on the railroads.”

“Bet your ass I do. They came after us, they hurt my feelings. But we got their attention. Made our own myth, robbed them blind, took back part of what they'd stolen from everyone else.”

“Give up, Parker, we weren't Robin Hoods.”

“Easterners don't know that. They'll believe anything you say happened on that side of the Mississippi. Riddle me this, who was the bigger thief, the railroads or us?”

“You could rationalize an earthquake.”

“Which is a damn valuable skill to have. The railroads stole with both hands, and the government let 'em do it. Just as long as they connected the oceans.”

“Didn't stop them from coming after us.”

“Proving they're greedy bastards. Couldn't even share with a couple of nice fellows like us.”

Longbaugh grinned. “You do go on.”

Neither of them reached for the bottle again. Whiskey still beckoned from their glasses, but they were done. The bar was empty of other customers, and the bartender was asleep on a stool, leaning back against a shelf. The thin, gray dawn brought an even light to the front window, slowly seeming to dim the electric bulbs.

Parker stood up and hitched his trousers, slipping the gold coin in his pocket. “Glad to see you again, Kid.”

Longbaugh nodded.

“Wish I could help you in this thing you have to do.” Parker looked at him wistfully. “But you're no good for me. Whenever I'm around you, I get the urge to rob something.”

“Was about to say the same about you.”

“Those were good times, though, weren't they? I miss 'em, I do. But the two of us back together? I can't be famous again. I only just learned to be dull. It's not so bad.”

“I would never ask.”

“No. You were always good that way. Let a man choose his own path, even if you did lead him right to the trailhead.”

They both laughed. Then Longbaugh looked at him with complete sincerity. “Bobby, you can't help me with this thing. I know you, you always want to help. But it's good this time to walk away.”

Parker nodded. He reached out and Longbaugh shook his hand. Parker held on to it. He looked sorry. “I'm glad you're all right.”

“It was good to know you, Parker.”

“And you, Longbaugh.”

Parker let go of his hand and left him there. After a moment, Longbaugh looked around, realizing Parker hadn't told him what name he was using. By then he was
gone.

D
uring the search for Queenie, Longbaugh and Hightower had often met at the Hotel Algonquin, as it bordered the Tenderloin. Longbaugh knew Hightower liked it there, so it was the first place he looked, in the busy, loud, huge restaurant in the hotel, and found him in a business meeting at his regular table, somewhere in the middle of the sea of diners. Longbaugh was determined to stay out of sight, but he was interested in Hightower's conversation. When a table came free not far from a waiter's screen at Hightower's back, he moved in to eavesdrop.

Hightower's adversary was an overdressed young sport in a colorful waistcoat, which may have been ostentation or perhaps a sly commentary on the sartorial choices of his business associates. On the other hand, as the rich did not need to shout, perhaps this young man was attempting to amuse his mentors with his frank, peacock-like display of appetite. Longbaugh leaned to see his shoes. Tired and worn. A few steps yet from his goal.

He listened.

Hightower's voice played in a different register, lower, slower, even
more furry and deliberate than before. “It's time to reopen the discussion about my friend.” Longbaugh gathered that Hightower's “friend” was Moretti.

“I will take back any message you care to send, but I can promise, with all candor, the answer will not change.”

“My friend is looking to expand his business, and he thinks
your
friend is a good match.”

The overdressed young sport was aloof. “Just so you understand, this is not personal, my friend is simply not interested in taking on partners.”

“Your friend is in a dangerous business.” Hightower was not happy. “Any man with extraordinary access to ordnance requires extraordinary protection.”

“I repeat, it is nothing personal.”

Hightower brooded. “My friend has a problem when people say no.”

“Would he threaten us? The way he threatens his Italian kin, with a note and a child's drawing of a hand?”

“You know the information we have. It could make things uncomfortable for your friend, as he is too comfortable in the company of a certain type of lady.”

“You overestimate your leverage. Do you truly imagine he fears for his reputation?”

“Perhaps he should.”

“Perhaps you'd be better off threatening to use our own weapons against us.”

Hightower showed his frustration. “You deliberately misunderstand, Mr. Wisher.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Hightower, but blackmail works only when your quarry has a secret he needs to hide. My friend cannot be threatened and he does not want your friend's sort of muscle.” The overdressed young sport named Wisher paused dramatically. “I, however, have his ear.” Hightower perked up, leaning forward. Wisher smiled knowingly. “And I have never been averse to allowing a bit of grease to be applied to my own wheels.”

Hightower was relieved. “Good boy, Wisher, I'm proud of you. That
is a mature attitude. You're wasting your talent working for your friend. But much as I'd like to hire you away from him, you may not leave his employ before you make this marriage happen.”

Their negotiation was at an end and Longbaugh slipped out of his chair. Wisher stood. Hightower stayed seated, his half-eaten breakfast before him. Longbaugh saw them shake hands. As he was interested to know more about Hightower's business, he moved out of the restaurant to wait outside.

The overdressed young sport named Wisher came out to the street. Longbaugh looked him over. He again thought that Wisher was replacing his wardrobe piece by piece as his finances improved. The grease for his wheels would likely slide him into a new pair of shoes. Wisher's eyes locked onto the bosom of an attractive woman as she passed. Appetite in other things as well. Longbaugh filed that away and stepped into Wisher's eye line.

“Pardon you,” said Wisher unpleasantly.

“You have a match?”

“No.”

“Say, I believe I know you.”

“You do not.”

“We haven't met?”

“Lord no.”

“Not Mr. Wisher?”

Wisher did not bother to look closely at Longbaugh's face. “No.”

Wisher moved around him and walked after the attractive woman.

Longbaugh went back inside, but stayed by the entrance. He caught the eye of Hightower's waiter, and tipped him to hand-carry a note to his customer, asking to meet outside.

Hightower took his time finishing his coffee, then paid his check. When he reached the street, he was wiping crumbs down his front. He was not unprepared, however, when Longbaugh grabbed his collar and pinned him against the wall, as Hightower brought a knife blade up against Longbaugh's throat.

“You called me out the last time, tourist. You're getting predictable.”

Hightower heard a pistol cock and a cool metal muzzle blocked the sound in his left ear.

“Am I?” said Longbaugh.

Hightower drew a long breath. He lowered the knife. “You got a beef, Place?”

“You might say that.”

“I'd like to know what I'm dying for.”

“Why should you? No one warned
her
why she was dying.”

“You're not talking sense.”

“The Moretti way, remember? They don't know why they're dead, they just are.”

“Queenie? Wasn't me, I swear.”

“Of course not.”

“Place, you've got a gun in my ear, I'll tell you anything you want to hear.”

Longbaugh thumbed the hammer back gently against the cylinder. Hightower straightened himself and made his knife disappear under his coat.

“Oh hell. I think I understand. Not Queenie. Your wife.” Hightower spoke softly as he began to piece things together. “And you think I did it.”

“Dynamite.”

“All right. I see why you're here. Moretti's signature, and I'm his employee.” Hightower spoke with care, talking aloud as he worked through it. “You think I lit the fuse. Not an unreasonable assumption, I would think the same.” His tone of voice was similar to the cautious way he had spoken to Wisher. “One thing you should know—even though Moretti is willing to let people die in ignorance, in this situation he would want to see her face. The ones who go anonymously are business associates. This thing with your wife is personal. He looks at her brand on his cheek every day of his life. My own theory is, if she was blown up, one of his people was taking initiative in an attempt to please him. Rest assured, Moretti will not be pleased, he dislikes initiative. Men with initiative always think they can do a better job than their boss.
Had it been me, I'd have had him there to watch. And make no mistake, if she's dead, that is not good news for your friend Agrius Hightower. If I've been kept in the dark, then Moretti's attitude toward me has changed. Now you have no reason to believe me, as you know me for a stout guttersnipe, but let me say this in all honesty, what you see before you is an innocent stout guttersnipe.”

While Longbaugh thought Hightower was lying, he also thought he was lying very well—almost as well as Longbaugh was lying, leading Hightower to believe it had been Etta in the explosion. As his anger receded, he thought that if Hightower had been responsible, he was a coldly brazen bastard to so casually return to his table at the Algonquin and dip his buttered toast in his sugared coffee. Had it been a charade to appear innocent, then Hightower was more cynical than even Longbaugh's low opinion allowed. In the end, it did not matter. Just as long as he told Moretti that Etta was dead.

“Maybe what you say is true.”

“Listen, Place, your wife just passed, I don't care how long it's been since you saw her, for all I know you could be relieved, but either way you have to be in shock. I'm buying you a drink.”

Now that he no longer needed to sell her death to Hightower, Longbaugh began to deflate. The explosion had taken something out of him. Even with no connection between Etta and E's death, his sense of hope had been undermined by the blast. She seemed farther away and he despaired at the possibility of ever finding her.

They returned to the hotel restaurant. The lighting had not changed, but the room appeared darker, and Longbaugh realized that
he
was the darkness in the room. Hightower caught the waiter's eye and ordered.

“Where'd it happen?”

“Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn? Oh, nasty, dying in Brooklyn.”

“Brilliant way to console a man.”

“My apologies, that was clumsy.”

The waiter returned with their drinks. Longbaugh did not want his, but he did not offer it to Hightower.

“What made you think it was me?”

“Other than the dynamite?”

“Never touch the stuff. Too unstable.”

“I thought you were following me. Turned out to be one of Moretti's boys.”

“Flexible?”

“Pimples.”

“Silvio? You sure? You saw him?”

Longbaugh nodded.

“How'd he miss killing you?”

“I wasn't with her at the time.”

“But you saw him tailing you?”

“No. I looked, but . . . I was watching for you.” Longbaugh narrowed his eyes with profound self-loathing.

Hightower stared off, thinking. “When was this?”

“You playing Pinkerton?”

“Just conversation, tourist.”

Longbaugh was quiet. He had no reason to share information. He didn't trust him, didn't want to know him, and didn't care to drink with him, but after running all that through his mind, he also sat in self-imposed darkness and realized he did not want to be alone, even if it meant spending time with a man such as this. He heard himself answer.

“After we left Queenie.”

“Christ.” Hightower rearranged the puzzle. “Silvio wasn't following you. Silvio was following
me
. Probably a team, one stayed on me when I went to the oyster bar and Silvio took you. Son of a teetotaler's bitch.”

Hightower's face changed while appearing to remain still. A spark under his eyes sent a blaze of fury through his skull, flushing his cheeks and thinning his lips until he went cold, grim, and hollow. Longbaugh realized Hightower was not angry, he was humiliated. He had lost Moretti's trust.

“Would you have done it if Moretti had asked?”

“Before I met you, without hesitation.”

“Now not so sure.”

“Moretti must have suspected that.”

Longbaugh said nothing. Again he thought the man a magnificent liar.

Hightower ordered a second drink.

Longbaugh had all he needed from Hightower. But he still did not leave. He fell into a brood, as if he were the grieving husband.

“Talk about her, Hightower.”

“Don't be morbid.”

“I wear morbid like a paper cut. Talk.”

Hightower adjusted himself in his chair, widening his nostrils dyspeptically. His words came out archly, his voice a step too high. “She was a lovely woman, charming, really, quite pretty . . .”

“And that you can save for the eulogy.”

Hightower's demeanor changed. “She's dead, Place, take your cherished memories and go back where you came from. Don't ask questions if you don't want answers.”

“Talk.”

“You don't want this from me.”

Longbaugh stared at him and Hightower relented, narrowing his eyes and gathering his thoughts while deciding just how politic to be. He gave Longbaugh a full look.

“I did not like your wife. She was a thorny progressive nitwit who believed everyone deserved a chance, and all the rest of that Bull Moose rot. But then, she didn't much like me either. Thought I was a flunky pig for sale to the richest fat cat. The moose, the pig, and the cat, welcome to the zoo. While there may be truth in all that, she could at least have pretended to charm me. Look at me, am I so bad? I carry a certain rough appeal. She didn't need to judge me so quick. You're not so much better than I am.”

He checked Longbaugh's reaction and saw he was not offended.

“Although I'll say one thing. She never showed interest in any man that I could see, so maybe it wasn't just me. How'd you get so lucky?”

Hightower stared off with a tiny shrug as if it was against his religion to share good news. Then he perked up with another thought.
“Oh, and one more thing, she was headstrong, the least appealing quality in a woman. She refused to compromise. She was rigid about everything. But then I am rigid about nothing whatsoever, a rabbit in springtime is rigid in comparison.”

“Give you that.”

“She'd get a look in her eyes, like she was thinking of something unexpected, off-key. A little smile, a glance to the side.”

“I know that look.”

“She thought she was outthinking everyone else in the room. That arrogant look of larceny.”

“That's it, isn't it?” Longbaugh smiled with the memory.

“
You
get that look, Place.”

“Do I?” He was caught off guard, then pleased to be tarred with the same brush.